India Dark

by Kirsty Murray

  My head swirled with worries. When I shut my eyes I could see the fakir’s mango tree sprouting, and then suddenly, out of his little tent sprang Lizzie, as golden as if her skin were made of mangoes. I woke in tears. I hadn’t spoken to Lizzie since we’d left Bombay. Despite everything, I missed her terribly, but I could never forgive her. And I would never, ever forgive Mr Arthur.

  I climbed out of bed and sat on the windowsill. Then I saw him. Charlie. He was hurrying down the steps of the hotel and into the street.

  The next morning, as soon as we had finished breakfast, I caught his wrist.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ I whispered. ‘About something important.’

  Charlie raised one eyebrow and smiled, the sort of smile he used when he was performing magic tricks. Before he could reply, Lionel sauntered over to join us. Neither Charlie nor I spoke another word. It wasn’t safe with Lionel in earshot.

  Mr Arthur worked us hard that morning, running through the schedule for the week and making all the girls block their movements on the new stage. At the end of rehearsals, Charlie picked up his topee, I fastened my hat in place and we strolled across the wide green lawn outside the Pavilion to a line of waiting vehicles. Charlie was cunning. He picked a tiny tri-rickshaw that only the two of us could fit inside, while the others rode in gharries and carriages.

  Before we reached the hotel, Charlie tapped the driver and we climbed out at the Elphinstone Soda Fountain.

  ‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘Time for a private talk, you and me, without all those long ears about.’

  Inside the shop, jars of marshmallows, sweets and jellies were lined up on the long bar. Charlie ordered us each a soda and paid for them from his mysterious stash of coins. We sat on high bar stools and I stirred icecream into my soda and sipped the cool sweetness of it through a straw. It was exactly like the ‘spiders’ that you could buy in Swan Street at home. But my mind grew cloudy when I thought of Melbourne. If Tilly’s plan worked, we would be in Melbourne in a matter of weeks. I couldn’t imagine being back in our tumbledown house in Willow Lane.

  Charlie watched me from over the top of his soda. ‘So, you and Ruby and Tilly are up to mischief. Ever since Kolar, you’ve been planning something, haven’t you?’

  ‘You’re the one with the secrets. Where did you go last night?’

  Charlie stirred his soda so that it frothed up to the lip of the glass and said, ‘You tell first.’

  ‘If I do tell, you mustn’t breathe a word to Lionel,’ I said. ‘Because if you tell him, he’ll ruin everything.’

  ‘I have my secrets from Lionel too,’ he said.

  I scooped some froth out of my glass and sucked it off my finger. This was going to be harder than I’d imagined.

  ‘You know, Mr Arthur has gone too far. We can’t trust him any more. He’s hurt too many girls.’

  Charlie grew still. ‘He’s not laid a finger on you, has he, Poesy?’

  ‘No! But that’s not the point,’ I said hotly. ‘He’s become worse and worse. He thrashed Tilly with his cane in Bombay and he knocked her head against an almirah in Bangalore.’

  ‘So what do you plan to do about it?’

  ‘Tilly and Ruby and I have found some men who can help us stop Mr Arthur from treating us badly. We met them in Bangalore and Kolar. They’re members of a society that protects children. And they have members in Madras too. Tilly says if we find SPCC men here in the audience, they’ll help us get away from Mr Arthur.’

  ‘What if some don’t want to get away from him?’ asked Charlie. ‘Lionel won’t turn on him and neither will Eliza.’

  At the mention of Lizzie, I felt my heart beat faster. ‘But he’s been horrid! If we stop him, it could rescue Lizzie from a terrible fate.’

  ‘Lizzie won’t want to be rescued by you or anyone else. Mr P reckons he’s going to marry her, soon as he gets a divorce.’

  ‘You can’t know that!’

  ‘I know Lionel wouldn’t play chaperone if he thought Mr P wasn’t going to do the right thing. He’s too fond of her.’

  ‘So you knew all along about Lizzie and Mr Arthur!’ I said.

  ‘Didn’t everyone?’ he shrugged. ‘I mean, you don’t want to talk about it but you know it’s going on. Though sometimes even Lionel likes to pretend it isn’t.’

  I had to swallow hard to stop myself crying. I was so ashamed that it had taken me so long to face the truth. It was awful to think of myself as being just like Lionel, pretending that everything was all right when it wasn’t.

  ‘Lionel has to wake up to himself. And you have to help me save him too. We’re going on strike – all of the troupe – as soon as we can. Tilly says we need to act before we leave India.’

  ‘Strike!’ He laughed, as if I’d said something funny. ‘That’s a turn-up for the books. I thought I was the one with plans. But what I’m planning won’t help any of you lot get away from Mr P.’

  He looked down into his soda.

  ‘What are you up to, Charlie Byrne? Why do you keep slipping out at night?’

  Charlie drew a deep breath. ‘You mustn’t share this with anyone. Not Tilly or Ruby or anyone.’

  I nodded and waited for him to go on.

  ‘I’m not coming away with you all when you leave India.’

  I was so stunned that my mouth fell open. Before I had time to gather my wits, to fully fathom what he meant, Charlie stood up.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said, leaving me with his terrible revelation, before darting through the doorway and into the crowded street.

  I saw him take a fistful of coins from his pocket and press them into the hand of a dark-skinned Indian boy. The Indian boy took something out from under his coat and handed it to Charlie. Their eyes met and they laughed at the same time as if they were old mates.

  I slipped off the stool and marched out into the street. Charlie and his friend glanced up as if I’d caught them doing something very naughty indeed. The Indian boy was dressed in a dark-blue cotton school uniform and his glossy black hair was parted neatly on one side.

  ‘This is Poesy,’ said Charlie. ‘Poesy, this is Prem.’

  ‘What did you sell him?’ I asked Prem. Immediately the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. Charlie scowled at me.

  ‘It’s very fine meeting you, Miss Poesy,’ said Prem, ignoring my question. He turned to Charlie and lowered his voice. ‘And I shall see you tonight, yes?’

  Charlie nodded. He said goodbye to Prem then grabbed me by the arm before I had a chance to say anything more.

  ‘He didn’t “sell” me anything. I asked him to buy me some things I need for my magic tricks, so he was doing me a favour. Prem’s uncle is a pharmacist.’

  We went back to our sodas but Charlie had grown sullen. He sat sucking on his straw so furiously that the paper collapsed and went flat.

  ‘How can you even think of staying here, Charlie?’ I said, feeling tears well in my eyes. ‘How would you get by? Is that boy something to do with this?’

  ‘While all you lot have been arguing with Old Man Percy and worrying about your petticoats, I’ve been finding out about India. I’ve been learning real magic.’

  ‘You mean those funny old fakirs?’

  ‘No,’ said Charlie scathingly, ‘though some of them are jolly good magicians. Poesy, they have stories here, like the stories we read about Homer and the Odyssey except it’s not all ancient and dead. It’s as if the people still have magic in them too. That’s why there are so many holy men here. They reckon gods come down and walk around in the skins of ordinary people. This country is full of magic.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Charlie. There’s only one God and that’s our God. The Christian God.’

  Charlie slumped forward and put his head in his hands. ‘You don’t understand. There are things I need to learn. There are sorcerers here that make our stage magicians look absolutely tame and ordinary. If I could find one to take me as an apprentice . . .’

  ‘It won’t be allowed. Y
ou’re a white boy.’

  ‘What about all those people down at the Theosophical Society? What about that Mrs Besant of yours? She thinks the Indians are onto something.’

  ‘She’s not my Mrs Besant. Just because my grandmother took me to see her in Melbourne doesn’t make her mine. Besides, she wouldn’t approve of a thirteen-year-old boy running around India by himself.’

  ‘She might. She’s adopting a boy who she says is going to be a new world leader and he’s only thirteen. She found him on the banks of the Adyar River and knew he was special, some sort of great spirit. That’s the sort of thing that happens here! Besides, even if a fakir won’t apprentice me, I can still learn from watching. There are lots of boxwallahs down around Elephant Gate, behind Fort George, that might want a boy like me to work for them.’

  ‘Did that Prem talk you into this?’

  ‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘Prem is going to be a lawyer, like his father. He’s studying at the Christian College.’

  ‘Then how do you know him?’

  ‘He loves magic too. It’s his hobby. It used to be mine, but now I don’t want it to be a hobby. I want it to be my life.’

  I stared into his face, so alight with earnest excitement, and my heart ached. He must have seen my lips trembling. Very gently, he rested his fingertips against my mouth, as if to silence me.

  ‘You keep my secret and I shall keep yours.’

  47

  THE GATHERING STORM

  Tilly Sweetrick

  Bandmann Comedy Company posters were everywhere in Madras. They were real performers from London, doing the sort of vaudeville that I knew I was simply made for. They were playing in a real theatre that seated at least 800 people. If the Butcher hadn’t worked us so hard and kept us so poor, I would have been in the audience at Victoria Hall every night. But the Butcher was our slavedriver: each night we performed a different musical, two shows on Saturday and even a show on Sunday. The Butcher and Mr Shrouts hadn’t even found us a proper theatre in Madras. The Moore Park Pavilion was more of a boxing arena than anything else.

  Our supplies of limelight ran out in the first week but that wasn’t such a bad thing because it meant I could make out the faces in the audience. I felt my heart leap when I finally spotted Mr Ruse. It had been hard to find ways to talk to people in Madras. The Butcher’s eyes were on me whenever I wandered out to stand by the buffet at the end of the show.

  After the performance, I met Mr Ruse on the balcony at the back of the Pavilion, far away from the ticketing area where the Butcher was counting the evening’s takings.

  ‘Are you all right, my dear?’ he asked.

  I pushed a hank of my hair away from my forehead and showed him my fading bruises.

  ‘He beat me the night before we left Bangalore. He knew I’d been talking to you.’

  Mr Ruse stepped away from me, and my heart sank. It was like trying to lure a frightened animal out of the forest. I had to be careful not to startle him.

  ‘The Resident in Mysore received your letter,’ said Mr Ruse, his voice so low that I could barely hear him. ‘He’s written of his concerns to the authorities in Madras.’

  ‘Is that all?’ I asked.

  Then he crooked his finger to indicate I should follow him and he led me to the edge of the balcony. He pointed into the crowd. ‘Those gentlemen down there are with the SPCC here in Madras. Mr St John, Mr Baker, and you might remember Mr Wilkes from Bangalore. They’ll be coming to your performances during the week, to keep an eye on things. While you’re in Madras, people will watch over you. I’m sure Mr Percival will be mindful of that.’

  I wanted to tell him how ridiculously useless it was to be watched while we were on stage. As if the Butcher was going to march out and beat us in public! I gritted my teeth and then took a deep breath, trying to curb my irritation.

  ‘Mr Percival has booked our fares to Colombo,’ I said. ‘We’re to go straight to the station when the curtain falls next Wednesday to take the train to Tuticorin and then the ferry across the strait to Colombo. We shan’t be there long enough to convince anyone of our situation and then he’s taking us to China. We’ll be out of the country on the seventeenth. We’ll never get home if you can’t help us now,’ I said, letting my eyes brim with tears.

  I rested my hand on his arm again and gazed pleadingly into his face. He shook himself free, little beads of sweat peppering his brow. ‘I will be back in Madras on Tuesday next week,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t despair, Miss Tilly.’

  Mr Ruse didn’t know me at all. I wasn’t going to despair. I was going to make something happen.

  The next day, Freddie, Max and I locked ourselves in the change rooms at the Pavilion and came up with a new plan. We were going to force the SPCC into taking action.

  That night, I told the others to be ready to work the crowd. As soon as the curtain fell, we ran among the audience, our photos sweaty in our hands. I sent Iris to talk to Mr Baker and Ruby to find someone new while I took charge of Mr Wilkes.

  ‘Poesy, you have to work on Mr St John. You have to walk him down near the stage door so he’s in place when Max does his bit.’

  ‘I can’t. I don’t know what to say!’ said Poesy, wringing her silly little hands.

  ‘You can’t get cold feet now. Tell him Percival’s a beast, that he beats us all. Tell him that the Butcher lied to our parents, as good as kidnapping us. That they all must help us before he takes us out of India.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t believe me?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he? Show him your bruise. That one on your arm.’

  ‘But you gave me that and it’s only tiny.’

  I pushed my hair back and pointed to the welt on my forehead. ‘But the Butcher gave me this. You saw him do it, Poesy. And remember, you’re not Lizzie’s pet any more. There’s no one to protect you. Next time, it could be you.’

  She made a little hiccupping noise of grief and then marched down into the stalls.

  We’d planned for Max to stir up trouble by baiting Lionel, but the whole thing turned out better than we’d expected and the Butcher played right into our hands. As Lionel walked past Max, Max whispered under his breath ‘Butcher’s Boy’. It was guaranteed to make Lionel mad with rage and Max knew it. Before anyone could stop them, the two boys were on the floor, punching each other furiously. The Butcher pulled them apart and dragged Max into one of the change rooms.

  We all heard Max cry out. Not just a small cry of distress. He howled at the top of his voice as if the Butcher was flaying him alive. I ran to the stage door and shoved it wide open, hoping that the audience milling around on the verandah would hear Max’s cries. Eddie Quedda’s face lit with alarm and he hurried towards me, slamming the door in my face. I could hear him speaking outside with Mr St John. Poesy had done her duty and pointed him in the right direction.

  ‘Who is that crying out? The boy needs assistance. What’s going on back there?’

  ‘Look, he’s a troublemaker, that one,’ said Eddie, his voice jovial. ‘The boy played the fool on stage tonight, jumping around like a ruddy jumping jack, and he made trouble backstage – against the rules – so I reported him to Mr Percival. Mr P is meting out a bit of discipline, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ve heard reports, you know. Rumours from Bangalore . . .’

  ‘They’re rumours, I assure you.’

  ‘Look, young man, I’m no expert on children but I know the sound of a child in distress.’

  ‘He’s an actor, sir. He’s going to be louder than your average boy. Mr Percival knows how to handle him.’

  Mr St John didn’t persist. He probably needed another whiskey to get his Dutch courage up and working. But I was pleased to see there was still a crowd milling about as we left the Pavilion. You could almost feel the swell of rumours, like distant thunder, gathering force and rumbling through the audience as they drifted out into the warm night.

  48

  DARK MAGIC

  Poesy Swift

  On Sunday
evening, Charlie tried to slip away without me. I wouldn’t let him. He’d promised to take me and I held him to his promise.

  Prem was waiting for us at the back of the Castle Hotel. While Charlie slipped into the shadows to change into his street disguise, Prem handed me a cloth bag. ‘For you, Miss Poesy, so that you can come about with us as our sister.’

  I pulled the drawstring top open and peeked inside. ‘It’s not a sari, is it?’ I asked, anxiously. I had no idea how the Indian ladies stopped those long pieces of cloth from falling off.

  ‘No, we call this costume a salwaar kameez,’ said Prem. ‘I have borrowed it from my sister, Meenakshi.’

  When I still looked hesitant, Prem reached into the bag and pulled out a corner of each of the three items inside.

  ‘This is a salwaar,’ he said showing me some light white cotton trousers, ‘or this type we actually call churidar. And then this blue shirt, we call a kurta and you wear this over the top of the churidar. Then you must wear a dupatta, which is the long shawl, to cover yourself.’

  I nodded and took the bag back into the hotel. I couldn’t possibly change in the laneway like Charlie. In the ladies room, I locked myself in one of the cubicles and struggled into the strange outfit. The light cotton pants were almost like pyjamas, with a drawstring waist. The indigo blue shirt was as light as a feather but it had long sleeves and came right down to my knees, almost like a dress. But the shawl was the piece I liked best. It was a beautiful deep peacock blue and it was so long that I could wrap it around my head to hide my blonde hair and fair skin and still have enough to cover my shoulders and drape over my wrists. At the bottom of the bag, there was a pair of worn cloth slippers that covered the whiteness of my feet.

  I stuffed my day clothes into the drawstring bag and hid it on top of the cistern before sneaking out into the laneway to meet the boys. Charlie beamed at me, as if I was in the loveliest costume rather than borrowed clothes. I smoothed the salwaar shawl across my shoulder and smiled. It smelt faintly of attar of roses and sandalwood, and I wondered what it would be like to be Prem’s sister.